


News From Nowhere

by kiev4am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, James Fitzjames Newspaper Mogul Of The Arctic, Newsroom AU, Or Possibly Just Missing Scenes, Perhaps Some Ships If You Squint, Shenanigans, Victorian Polar Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-14 11:08:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiev4am/pseuds/kiev4am
Summary: "There are people who think you can run a newspaper about as easily as you can poke a fire."  Dispatches from Her Majesty's Ships Erebus and Terror.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [arcticelves's post](https://arcticelves.tumblr.com/post/176960827922/i-just-got-a-copy-of-sir-john-franklins-erebus) about Arctic ships often 'entertaining the troops' by producing their own newspapers and the fact, recorded in his biography, that as a midshipman on the HMS Madagascar James Fitzjames was the self-appointed editor of the ship's newspaper. Because of course he was.
> 
> Takes place sometime after Sir John's death and before Thomas Blanky lost his leg.
> 
> I'm fairly sure Terry Pratchett's 'The Truth' - which contains my favourite fictional newsroom - is responsible for much of the general tone and any sense of 'X days since our last nonsense' going on here. The quote in the summary is from [an essay by C. P. Scott](https://www.theguardian.com/sustainability/cp-scott-centenary-essay), editor of what was then the Manchester Guardian and is now the UK's Guardian newspaper, on the paper's centenary in 1921. In the same piece he also coined the immortal phrase "comment is free, but facts are sacred."

_The Erebus Gazette_  
_Newspaper of the HMS Erebus, Flagship of the Franklin Expedition_  
_Ed. H T. D. Le Vesconte_  


"It'll be _fun_ , Henry."

"That's what you said about the cheetah. And the fireworks. And those caricatures you drew on the tablecloth during that card game."

The tally of misadventures does nothing to douse the bright, coaxing smile on James Fitzjames' face. Henry Le Vesconte leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and gives his captain and old friend the dullest stare he can muster - not that this has ever done a scrap of good. The sheet of draughtsman's paper lies on the wardroom table, heavily penned in clumsy imitation of printer's type. There are inky fingermarks, like a schoolboy's, at the corners. "A newspaper," he says.

"A news _letter_ ," James clarifies. "We haven't enough paper for more than two sheets per issue, but with that limitation we could manage for a few months - at least until the spring comes. There wouldn't be a lot of copies - I think ten at most, the men would have to pass it round, or we could paste them up in certain places…"

"If you've planned this far, we _are_ in trouble," Henry says dryly.

"It's been done on other ships at sea. I've done it myself, on the _Madagascar_. It's an excellent way of entertaining the men - of distracting them on long voyages. I heard they had one on Parry's expedition, and Ross' when they overwintered. It's as much an Arctic tradition as the pageants and theatricals." James' grin is a little manic, his speech a little over-fervent, and Henry wonders just whose distraction is paramount here.

"Why don't _you_ be the editor, then?"

"Well, I'm the captain. As much as I'd like to - and I _would_ \- the men would never confide in me. They'd never bring me stories and poems and oddments for the listings. And think of it, you'd have complete creative authority."

"Isn't that the same thing as complete responsibility for what goes wrong?"

"Come on, Henry. It's for the good of the crew. For _morale_."

Henry lifts an eyebrow. "Providing the men an outlet for petty gossip, anonymous jibes and homesick romanticism will benefit morale? Some would call it an open door to mutiny."

" _Henry_."

Henry rolls his eyes at his friend's shameless deployment of the lost-dog face. He is tired. He is tired of the cold, the snow, the tormented creaks of the ship in its cage of ice, the unique additional greyness that tinned food attains when served on Willow pattern china, the vast mocking scrolls of the aurora, the resentful deference of bored and fearful men. The deathly, endless, regimented waiting. Deep in his chilled bones, he understands. He looks at James - noting the gritted jaw beneath the hopeful, madcap smile - and takes pity. But pity doesn't _quite_ subdue the lessons of experience. He pulls the paper towards him, dips his own pen, and in the white space above his own name inscribes: _Proprietor J. Fitzjames, Esq_. "Cornerstone of a free press," he says, with relish. "Accountability at the very highest levels."

James looks mulishly at the paper. "If I refuse?"

"Then our first issue leads with a _most_ diverting reminiscence concerning an unconventional ship's mascot."

For an instant, James scowls at him. Then he grins, wicked and impervious. "There, you see, you have it! You've been an editor for five minutes and already you're twice as unscrupulous."

God _damn_ it, Henry thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James Fitzjames invents the ask box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given the common themes of humble beginnings, self-invention and impostor syndrome, I'm starting to have wild thoughts about James as the hero of a Terror/Citizen Kane AU. Nothing so lofty here, however.

The box sits on the wardroom table where Bridgens has deposited it moments before. From either side, James Fitzjames and Henry Le Vesconte watch it warily - this despite the fact that it is nothing more ominous than a discarded Goldner's crate with a slot sawn in it, a padlock securing the lid. They glare at each other like duellists until James surrenders with a sigh and pulls the box towards him. It's large but not heavy and he picks it up, shaking it cautiously by his ear. From within comes a baleful rustling sound, like irked snakes. "Well, there's something," he says, uncertainly.

"Thank goodness," Henry drawls. James glowers at him and retrieves the key for the padlock.

It had been James' idea. The newsletter is a novelty, and men long enmeshed in routine need some comfort when faced with its disruption. He'd got Henry to gather them together - to announce the venture and invite contributions - but he'd strongly emphasised the voluntary nature of it, and also the anonymity; hence, as proof, the box. For a week it has been stationed in a communal area far from the officers' quarters, with a tin full of pencils and a baker's tray of paper cut in modest folded squares.  Any man so inclined can write a tale, a notice, a poem, a suggestion - or ask a more lettered friend to do it for him - and then drop it, as nameless as a ballot, through the posting-slot.

James has opened the lid. For a moment he stands motionless, staring down at the still-hidden contents, and Henry feels proud of himself for resisting a quip about Pandora. Then James lifts the box and upends it, letting a veritable snowdrift of paper tumble out across the varnished table. He grins evilly. Making scoops of his hands, he shuffles the heap wholesale towards Henry. "Your first submissions, master Editor."

"Oh really, James?" With the license only an old friend can dare in a captain's presence, Henry goes to the cabinet, unstoppers the whisky, and pours them each a _very_ large glass. He sets them down on the table with a clunk, then with brusque sweeps divides the pile of paper into two and shoves one back at the luckless proprietor of the _Erebus Gazette_. "Earn your keep, sir."

One hour and two glasses later they are both slumped in their chairs at the table, bleary but determined; their piles of paper have dwindled to a few slips each, the rest consigned either to a neat stack between them or a messier centrepiece in front. James refills his glass, takes a fortifying gulp, and unfolds a paper from his ration. He groans sepulchrally as he reads. "' _There once was a doctor named Stanley_ …'"

"I swear by all that's holy, James - if I hear one more limerick, libellous or not, I shall mutiny."

James' laugh is a little ragged. "In fairness, that one was truthful." Screwed into a ball, the paper lands atop the burgeoning rejection pile.

"' _Brief Theories on the Meaning of Netsilik Carvings_.' Not much point leaving his name off, that's Goodsir for sure. Actually, I'd read it." Henry adds it to the pile for publication.

"Aha. This is more like it."

"What've you got?"

"A _real_ poem, that's what." James opens his mouth to read aloud, but falters as he scans the lines. His smile drops, replaced by a sombreness that is infinitely more appreciative. "This is… really very good," he says quietly.

Henry holds out his hand and James passes it across. It _is_ good: a love poem, spare and elegant and free of rhyme, wry yet sincere, tender without being mawkish, commanding in its very simplicity. Beautiful handwriting, too. "Well, well," he says absently. "We've always known what flights of feeling the sea can wring from men who miss their loved ones - now we see the power of the ice." He puts the poem decisively on the publish stack and unfolds his final slip. "' _Lost: one tobacco-pouch, red leather, half full. Please return to John Cowie_. Won't be half full when it's found, poor fellow." He adds it to the pile and glances at James' side of the table. "Last one, thank God. Let's hear it."

James clears his throat theatrically. "' _Can we have another football match with Terror, please?_ ' Hmm. What d'you think? The last one went rather well, if I recall."

"The last one ended in a disputed goal and a snowball fight, James."

"A _magnificent_ snowball fight, Henry, with extra rum afterwards. Excellent for morale. Well, mostly." James grins as a delightful memory resurfaces. "I did think Captain Crozier might spontaneously combust when that goal was allowed."

"He really has an impressive vocabulary," Henry says with scrupulous gravity.

James nods sagely. "Range _and_ volume; difficult to achieve together."

"I'm fairly certain he could curse continuously for five minutes and not repeat himself."

"Seven," James says immediately. "When _Terror_ ran aground that day. Could make out every syllable from here."

"He's going to have a view on _this_ , you know." Henry waves at the papery horror of the table.

James raises his glass, his eyes warm with mischief. "I'm counting on it," he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone want to hazard a guess as to the author of the poem?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the _Erebus Gazette_ takes on new staff.

James Fitzjames puts down the pen, steps away from the table and, clutching his freezing hands together, leans out of the wardroom door to call for tea.  It is late in the evening; as engrossed as he is with the newsletter project, his captain's duties must take precedence during normal hours.  Now the cold and the unaccustomed effort have made aching sticks of his fingers, and he stares down at his work with sleepy, dulled resentment.

With nothing so civilian as a printing press on board they are left to their own devices, specifically pens and ink-pots.  He and Henry have agreed - during a lofty editorial discussion that encompassed pleas, rebuffs, cajoling, sarcasm, the ruthless casting-up of past misdeeds and at last a sullen coin-toss - that it is hardly fair for Henry to collate, polish and compose all of the newsletter's content and  _also_  write out every one of the agreed first run of six copies (to be posted on walls about the ship).  Thus James now shares the editor's role, a silent partner as it were - the only time in James' life, Henry gleefully points out, that anyone has ever called him silent - and they have split the 'print' load equally with one caveat: James must create the first proof copy.  
   
James is no stranger to penmanship; in his time he has cheerfully set his hand to long letters, ships' logs, mathematical formulae and even satirical verses (dear God, how long ago that seems).  But this exercise has made him humbly and irritably aware of his limitations.  Aping the appearance of newsprint, copying words by rote that are not one's own, is not at all the same as writing freely; it is eye-straining and time-consuming, demanding a persnickety neatness and an attention to detail that does not come naturally to him.  It is also, James notes with shame, quite damnably _inky_ \- his shirt-cuffs and finger-ends look as if he has lost a scuffle with a small octopus.  Even William Wentzell could do better.  
   
_Is it worth it?_  he asks himself again.  And answers himself, cowed and shaken below the hollow groaning of the ice:   _I don't know_.  All he knows - in his chilled, sleep-deprived, grief-stricken, unready captain's heart - is that the newsletter is a tiny, cherished kernel of hope; that in the face of the bone-deep cold, the horror of the creature and Sir John's demise, the crushing stasis of the ships and his own private chasms of fear and doubt, the paper's very triviality seems to burn in his mind like a stubborn, flickering candle.  
   
He is just contemplating a walk to Henry's berth to offer him a comradely drink (and not at all to buy Henry's patience with spirits so he may whine at him with impunity) when John Bridgens enters the wardroom, bearing on a tray his forgotten tea.  Hastily James finds a smile, whisking his half-lettered paper to one side.  
   
"Ah, Bridgens, thank you.  Some tea will thaw out my brain, I hope."  
   
"It is  _very_ cold tonight, sir - even by present standards." As he pours out the tea Bridgens glances sideways, his dark eyes falling on the newsletter draft; though his ministrations never falter, his face a study in discretion, he is clearly and keenly reading.

James remembers his few passing glimpses of Bridgens' berth: the neat, well-thumbed books on the little desk, the occasional scraps of writing. No doubt there are boundaries here, both of rank _and_ journalistic protocol, but James is just tired enough - and lonely enough, at this moment - to wish those boundaries to the devil. As he picks up his tea, he gestures at the paper. "Will it do, do you think?" he asks frankly.

Bridgens glances at him, gauging his sincerity, and James pushes the paper towards him as ingratiatingly as he can. "Please. God knows, a fresh eye can do naught but good here."

As always, the steward's wry smile seems unsettlingly wise. "Very well, sir." Straightening the paper with his fingers, Bridgens reads; stamping down a troublesome amount of pride, James retreats a little from the table in the hopes of hiding how _very_ closely he is watching the man's face for clues.

Bridgens is impassive for a full minute, and then James sees it - the slightest flinch of his formidable eyebrows, quickly erased. A little later, there it is again; once more, atop the second page. In an instant, two paths present themselves to James with great clarity. In the first he stands aloof as he is and waits for Bridgens to follow his no-doubt shrewd steward's instincts, offering anodyne insubstantial praise before he gathers up the tea-tray and departs; in the other - 

Before he can change his mind James steps up to the table, picks up the nearest pencil and holds it out to Bridgens. Bridgens looks cautiously from the pencil to James, making no move to take it. "You wish me to… annotate this copy, sir?"

Yes, James thinks, because you're the only steward I know who not only understands the verb _to annotate_ but is subtle enough to use it when you mean _correct your commanding officer's woeful punctuation_. "Please," he says soberly. "I would be very much obliged, Bridgens."

"If you're sure, sir…" With a nod Bridgens takes up the pencil, and James cranes over his shoulder as his hand moves slowly across the densely-lettered sheet. The next five minutes are, quite literally, an education. James' punctuation does, in fact, mostly escape unscathed, as does his spelling; but somehow, simply by replacing a word here or a comma there, injecting a brief phrase in the right place, Bridgens contrives to lay a gloss over the whole of it, a voice that is authentically and authoritatively that of a newspaper and not an eloquent but unravelling expedition captain. Perhaps James had the trick of it in his youth, on the _Madagascar_ ; or perhaps - more likely - he wasn't old enough to see what style was missing. But he sees it now; and sees something else, too, flowing from the loops and curls of Bridgens' gracefully distinctive writing. As his regard for the quiet steward increases threefold, James reflects in rueful amazement on the boundless surprises this strange, stymied voyage has yielded up.

Bridgens lays down the pencil and steps back, brushes his hands on his waistcoat with sudden diffidence. "I… hope I haven't overstepped, sir? Once one has the habit of correction, it can be - difficult to break."

James wonders briefly where Bridgens learned such habits, whether a former life as tutor or schoolmaster lies hidden in his past. "Overstepped? On the contrary, Bridgens - you’ve worked magic. This reads infinitely better than it did a short while ago." James looks down at the page again, then grins as a plan springs fully-formed to mind. "In fact... you may just have written yourself a small extension of your duties, if you're amenable. Could I prevail upon you to, er, _annotate_ our newsletter drafts on a more formal basis - in exchange for, say, the freedom of the officers' library? And the books here in the wardroom? I'm afraid Sir John's tastes ran to the purely theological," he says apologetically, "but our own collection has a decent range, and you could borrow whatever you'd like."

Bridgens pauses as if considering, but there's no mistaking the voracious interest that sparked in his eyes at the mention of fresh books. At last, with a slow smile, he nods. "Of course, sir, I'd be glad to help. And thank you. For the books, I mean. I'm afraid w - _I_ have burned through my own library rather quickly here." He clears his throat, turning briskly to the tea-tray. "And now I rather think your tea has gone cold, sir."

James waves carelessly at his cup, absurdly cheered by his feat of recruitment. "It's all right, Bridgens, you can take it away. I am really most sincerely grateful to you. And, Bridgens - "

Bridgens turns at the door, tray in hand, and James does his damnedest in that moment to strip all rank from his voice so that Bridgens will hear only his honest admiration, writer to writer. "That really was… a _very_ good poem. I pray the object of your affections may read it too, someday."

Watching the defensive flare in Bridgens' eyes, James has the sense that he is being measured. Then the steward smiles - slow and grave as ever, but with a certain shine about the eyes. "I have faith, sir, that they will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, in which the identity of the poet is a surprise to nobody.


End file.
